Day Two - Evening

     The boy finishes his job without further incident. A generous bowl of goulash is served, as promised. The boy gives his thanks for the food. The barmaid gives her thanks for his help. It's the closest thing to grace this meal will have. The boy plops down at the counter to chow down and hard silver jabs his ribs.

     “Ow.” He didn't mean to say it. He swears it came out of his mouth on its own.

     Now the barmaid's hot and bothered and asking more questions. “Are you alright?” She asks.

     He's flattered she's concerned, but this isn't a good time.

     “Yeah, I'm fine, great actually. It's a splinter is all.”

     “From wiping the tables?”

     The boy nods. Another lie. He’s got splinters, that part’s true, but they're from that stupid window. Though he cursed them then, he blesses them enough for a benediction now that they fortify his deception into something substantial enough to believe. The barmaid certainly begins to when he shows his pierced palms.

Table of Contents

     Welcome! Given that you are currently on this site, I assume you are interested in The Demon Boy. If I am mistaken about your reasons for being here... well then... Why are you here? You know what? It's none of my business. I'm sorry I asked and I wish you welcome nonetheless.

     For those of you who are new here and are wondering what The Demon Boy is, allow me to satisfy your curiosity. The Demon Boy is a story that I am writing. It takes place in the British Isles during the 1800's. It is a work of fiction that spans the genres of historical fiction, psychological thriller, horror, mystery, slice of life, with supernatural/fantasy elements. There will be some parts that will have content that may be disturbing to some people. This story will become increasingly dark as it progresses, particularly from Day Two and beyond. For more information, please see this brief intermission. It addresses what I assume to be any and all concerns about content, but I've been wrong before, so do me a favor and correct me whensoever you see fit.

Day Two - Afternoon

     It took the boy several hours to stumble into town. He’d have arrived sooner if he hadn’t gotten the hair-brained notion to trail blaze a shortcut through the underbrush. He got lost instead. Twice. And got stuck in a bush too.

     He can't for the life of him understand why everyone says greens are good for you. The greens you get fed taste like mud slop and feel the same going down. The greens you run into scratch and cling stubbornly in your hair. He can’t stand any of it.

     Then there’s a warbling in the air. The boy snaps to attention and sees a bird perched on a branch not too far into the trees. The mottled brown of its plumes blends in well with the forest pallet. It can barely be seen, but there it is. It repeats its brief chorus and vanishes.

     The boy stares dumbly in the direction he thinks it went. He remembers this morning. Maybe greens aren’t all bad...

     He strolls out of the forest shade and into the bright lanes of Glenholm town. It’s quiet today. He can’t hear the easy ebb and flow of the rumor mill drifting down the street. Come to think of it, what rumor mill? There’s nobody here! He drifts towards the town square until he catches the hum of someone talking very loudly coming from inside one of the buildings he passes. There's neither hide nor hair of anyone else.

     Stranger and stranger.

Day Two - Morning

     A strange squeaking sound wakes the boy. He's never heard anything like it. It's coming from above his head.

     He swears loudly and jerks away. It's only after he presses himself against the footboard that he looks back and realizes both the window and its sill are empty. He squints, rubs his bleary eyes, and looks again.

     Still nothing. Not a mouse to be found.

     It dawns on him that the squeaking is coming from outside the window. He sticks his head out, not touching the blasted frame as much as possible. He searches this way and that. Finally, he looks up and spots movement high in tree branches a short distance away.

     What in blazes are those? One of them shoots off from the green and arks into sky blue. It twitters and squeaks in litting song.

     “Bird... It's a bird.” The boy didn't think anything on earth could sound so wonderful. He has trouble connecting the rough noise the city crows barked with the light melodies he's hearing now. They're both birds, but why are they so different?

     He stays there, mouth agape, until his neck aches. Reluctantly, he pulls himself away. There's other things that need doing. He looks about his room. He was too rattled and the room too dark for proper scrutiny last night. The morning rays are keen enough to see by, though it's filtered through the fringe of the forest, and by it he spies three beds: the one he's sitting on, settled beneath the window in the middle of the room, and the other two pressed against the walls to either side of his bed. He could only see the one bed in last night’s shadows.

A Brief Intermission

A Warning.

     From Day Two onwards, this story gets increasingly dark. As such, it's only fair that an appropriate warning is given. Which is exactly what this is. It says so right up there. See it? It says "Warning" in big font, in case you missed it.

     Anyhow. Some readers may find future content disturbing and/or upsetting. Such content includes, but may not be limited to the following:

• Coarse language (which may or may not be spelled correctly).
• Violence and references to it, including death threats and child abuse (thanks Myr).
• Dubious morality (yes, more of it).
• Child neglect.
• Substance use.
• Dead bodies.
• Bad reality testing (the boy was like this when I found him, I swear).

     As such, recommended audiences are teen and up. I repeat: this story has a T Rating at the very least.

     You have been warned. If you have any concerns about content at any point in the story or see anything that this warning has missed, please comment on this page.

     Thus concludes my moral burden and this public service announcement. Thank you for reading and have a nice day!

     Now we return to our regularly scheduled programming:     Day Two - Morning ==>
                                                                          Alternatively:     Table of Contents ==>

Day One - Night

     The smell that rolls out hits the pair, boy and toff both, with a force that surpasses the scent of the pub’s stew in all the wrong ways. It's the reek of stale sweat, mildew, and old booze. The boy tries not to breathe, not to retch. He swears he's gonna be sick. He bites the feeling back and bites his tongue for good measure.

     If a whiff is enough to make the boy retch, he doesn't dare look at what's hunched in the doorway. Just a peep will kill him dead of fright, so he bores holes in the shreds of what was once a doormat that are lying at his feet, pretending there is nothing more fascinating than this in the whole, wide world.

     Who’s he kidding? He’s so jumpy he almost leaps over the manor and onto the roof when the thing at the door speaks.

     He didn't think it could speak.

Day One - Evening

     Perfect silence. There’s the steady thrum of a panicked heart, but the jury's still out over whether it belongs to the boy or one of the adults.

     “What do you have to do with Myr?” The banker repeats, louder this time. The volume betrays the tremor in his voice. It’s too slight for the toff to notice, twat that he is. The boy, on the other hand, knows too well what to look for. He came from the slums; he, like all the other boys and girls born and raised there, can smell fear like a bloodhound tracks a dead man.

     The question is, why is he afraid?

     “He… he’s my uncle.” The boy's answer is soft, unconfident. Anyone with half a brain wouldn’t believe a word of it.

     The banker, however, does. He chases them out of the building for it, howling at their backs to keep the hell away from him, for the love of God! Whoever this Myr guy is, it’s enough to scare him stupid. That terrifies the boy more than anything could. Rich, posh guys like this have too much money to be afraid, to need fear. Plus, they like other rich, posh guys, or at least they aren’t spooked like they saw the boogie man.